Mirror, Mirror
by parisoriginal
Summary: Based on an anonymous prompt. Quinn tries to look at herself in the mirror but the wheelchair isn't tall enough. She stubbornly decides to try and stand but fails. Rachel finds her.


**A/N:** Blame Aly's (lellolamb) anon tbh.

**Anonymous asked lellolamb:** _What if, one day, Quinn tries to look at herself in the mirror in one of the bathrooms, but can't because of the wheelchair. So she gets upset because of the fact that she still can't stand. So she tries forcing herself to stand, but falls down, and she gets angry and screams and Rachel's the one that finds her, and just all the tears and hugs and crying and angst._

* * *

You roll your chair up to the mirror but find that your eyes meet the sink and not your own reflection. Eyes widen, and a blank expression takes over your face. A distorted and blurry version of yourself is vaguely looking back at you. You don't recognize it at all. Stubborn, as always, you pick up your leg from beneath your knee and lean down to flip up the footrest, but of course, being far too close to the porcelain, your forehead slams right into the sink. A broken cry echoes in the lonely bathroom, your hand immediately consoles the already forming bump on your head.

"That is _it_," you throw your leg to the ground, following the second. You will do this. You will get up and you will take a look at yourself in the mirror just like everyone else can. "You can do this, Quinn." You chant it, softly but determinedly, out loud and in your mind. Your fingers grip the handle of the chair, while your other hand covers the corner of the God forsaken sink.

"One," you begin to count, "two," deep breath, "thr-ee."

You struggle; your arms wobble a little bit. You hadn't gotten the chance to really work them out after waking up in the hospital. The nurses would barely let you lift your own juice box and your mother had unnecessarily become your own personal maid. Of course, your arms would wobble, but you are half-way there and filled with such an intense sense of hope, victory, and confidence that it's overwhelming. Just as you can catch a glimpse of your bright hazel eyes, your left hand slips and the chair rolls away, and down you go.

The pain is incredible. It shoots from your hip and straight up your spine. It's so severe, you start to see black spots. Your mouth hangs ajar, but nothing comes out. The only form of expression now is the streak of tears flowing over the bridge of your perfectly constructed nose and under your right eye. You lightly rest your head upon the cold tile floor and let the feeling sink in. There you are: a beautiful blonde girl, once again captain of the Cheerios, with straight A's and taking AP courses, most likely graduating at the very top of her class, now helplessly lying on the floor of the McKinley High girl's bathroom with no shred of dignity left in her body.

Squeezing your eyes shut through the pain of propping yourself up on your side, anger bubbles madly in the pit of your stomach. Before you can allow it, sobs ripple through your body, absolutely shaking you to bits and the numb feeling in your wrist comes from how hard you began to pound your fist on the floor. Finally, you are able to sit up and your hands cover your face. _This can't be happening to me_, you think. Everything hurts. Physically and emotionally and-God, just _everything_. You don't even realize you've stopped breathing. Your chest feels like a vacuum has sucked out all the air and you don't know how to let any back in. "_Oh, my God_," bursts out of you when you can actually take enough of a breath to say it.

A pair of knees, not your own, show up in your line of vision. The color drains from your face and you immediately, almost disturbingly, straighten up. You don't know when it happened, you didn't even hear Rachel come in. Had she seen the whole thing? Had she been in a stall? The diva's tiny fingers wrap around your elbow, "come on," she says softly, but no. Anger shoots through your veins like a drug, "_no_."

"No?" She asks in surprise. God, you want to throw something at her. "Did I stutter?" You spit back and you know it's not her fault, but she has guilt written all over her face. You try to show her up, you try to prove you can do this. Your palms hit the ground and you huff before taking a deep breath and lift yourself. Your left hand reaches for the sink and you've almost got it, but again, your upper body strength isn't at its best.

You fall once again, "Fu-" you pause, because you hate profanity, but-what the hell, you're on the floor of your school bathroom, for God's sake, and in front of Rachel Berry no less and you can't even lift yourself up, so, "_Fuck._"

Rachel shakes at how, first of all, naturally the word flew from your mouth, and secondly, how loudly it rang throughout the restroom. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!" Hot tears stream down your face and you've officially stopped giving a _shit_. You're in a wheelchair, you can't move your legs, you can't do something as stupidly simple as looking at yourself in a goddamned mirror.

"Quinn," she begins, but you stop her again. "I don't need your help."

She blinks hard, her eyes starting to pool and it makes you sick to your stomach, "Rachel, I don't need your pity. Just leave me alone."

"Qui-"

"I said: Leave me alone, Rachel," you say more adamantly, but she grips your elbow so hard you almost let out a cry.

"_Let me help you!_" Her face is stern and rigid. Her eyes move quickly from one of your own to the next and her bottom lip begins to quiver. You are both bathed in silence for a few seconds. You don't want it. You don't want any of it. But her _face_. Her face is just-

"_Please_, Quinn," her brows furrow, but her gaze is locked on you, "I-" her voice cracks and you feel a pull at your heart. Suddenly, her arms wrap around you, and you take in her scent. She smells so good and you fit so perfectly against her body. At last, you release a breath you've been holding captive. You feel her shake through a sob before she whispers something near your ear. It takes you a couple of times to finally make out that she's repeating the words, "I'm sorry", over and over.

It finally hits you that she thinks this is all her fault. She thinks that your ridiculous decision of picking up your phone while driving and answering a text is all her doing. Your face distorts for a second, feeling like you've been smacked and hard, but you breathe through it and hold her tight.

"It could've been anyone," you whisper once she's calmed a bit. You feel her shake her head against your face. You squeeze her, "Rachel, it could've been my mother, or Santana, or-"

"Yes, but it was _me_," she begins to sob again. No, you can't let her do this to herself. You can't let her think it was all her. No, no, no. You take her by the shoulders and grip her harder than you intend, but you need to get this across. Your eyes meet and hers are bloodshot, and her lashes are soaked and her chocolate brown iris just shines back at you.

"Listen to me, Rachel Barbra Berry," you know full-naming her will catch her attention, "_I_ was the idiot who had her phone out. _I_ was the jackass who thought she could multitask. _I_ was the one who texted back."

Her eyes shut tight and her head hangs down. Tears fall simultaneously. You shake her lightly, "Rachel," you wait for her to look up at you, but it doesn't happen. You take your right hand and bend your index finger beneath her chin, "Rach…"

She lets you lift her head and she bites her lip. A whimpered, "hmm," escapes her and your heart melts a little. Your thumb softly brushes under her eye, wiping away yet another tear and then take a loose strand of hair and tuck it behind her ear. Her eyes close at the gesture, almost like she's memorizing the movement of your hand against her face. You don't know what brings you to do this, but-God, her face is just so- you lean forward and you place a small kiss onto her cheek before resting your forehead on hers. Her face flushes, but she doesn't move. Your hand cups her cheek and your thumb rubs the place where your lips just were.

"Look at me?" It's almost cute how her eyes are basically cross-eyed right now, but you're sure yours are doing just the same. "It wasn't your fault, okay?"

She nods and you feel yourself nod with her. The action causes you to smile, and Rachel mirrors it. You cough up a small laugh when you see that beautiful smile return to her face and she giggles a bit in return. Alas, your hands fall from her body and you lift your head from hers reluctantly before clearing your throat. Rachel's fingers linger over her cheek. She doesn't say anything. You take her other hand and run your thumb over fingers, "help me up?"

The corner of her lips lift a bit and she nods, standing up and then wheeling the chair back and pressing down the breaks. Ah, that's what you forgot to do. Right. She kneels and wraps your arm around her shoulders and with your help and hers, you're finally back on your chair.

"How'd you," she hesitates, "wind up on the floor anyway?"

She walks around you and stops front and center. You take a deep breath, "I wanted to look at myself in the mirror."

Your sight remains on that stupid warped reflection on the sink again. Rachel kneels down in front of you, but you're still staring at yourself in the porcelain. She places her warm hands upon your cheeks and brings your eyes to hers. She's almost at eye level, but, you know, height difference. Her eyes search through yours for something you're uncertain she'll find, but you're guessing she does, because she smiles gingerly. You smile back, puzzled.

"Well," you lean your head into her palm, they feel so soft, "you look absolutely stunning."


End file.
